When I got my first period at 13, my mother handed me a pad. It was familiar. I’d seen my friends use it. It made sense to me logically—I was bleeding, and something had to collect it, like a diaper collects urine for a baby. Simple.
But emotionally, it wasn’t simple. It was messy. Chaotic. My body had just flipped a switch and now, it was going to bleed without warning once a month, forever. I felt out of control—I felt gross. Sticky, smelly, and WET. Pads felt like I was bandaging a leak, not embracing a natural process. It was survival, not empowerment.
The Pool Party Panic
Then at 15, came the pool party. I had my period, so I figured I’d sit this one out, like I’d seen my friends do. But when I mentioned it to my mom, she pulled out these little cotton bullets and explained that they were tampons, and that I should take them for a spin.
Excuse me, WHAT? The idea of inserting something inside me was terrifying. But trusting my mother’s judgment (and not wanting to miss the pool party of the year), I took them with me, locked myself in the bathroom, and got to work.
And it was… awful.
Like walking-with-a-rock-in-your-shoe awful. Like I-was-sure-it-was-going-to-fall-out awful. I was convinced I had injured something. But I still went out there, swam awkwardly, and smiled like nothing was wrong while feeling like I had shoved a stick of chalk into my soul.
But this isn’t a story about how awful tampons are. This is a journey from awful to empowered. It’s the story of how tampons changed my relationship with my body—from feeling like it was something unpredictable, uncomfortable, and kind of gross, to something I could actually trust, feel at ease in, and even admire. Yep, this is a glow-up story. For me and my uterus.
The Diagram That Changed Everything
When I got home from the pool party, I confronted my mom like a betrayed daughter in a soap opera. She listened patiently to my dramatic monologue, sighed, and said, “I should’ve explained better.”
Then she grabbed a notepad and sketched a vague outline of a woman’s anatomy and explained that my vagina wasn’t just an open space—it had a canal leading to a roomier area inside. The tampon wasn’t supposed to be in the canal (where I had left it), it was meant to glide past it and settle comfortably in the “big room.” (Ed. note: Here’s Nua’s version of this guide.)
So I marched back into the bathroom and followed her instructions. I pushed the tampon in farther, deeper, until there was that strange but satisfying pop, a release of pressure. Like it found its parking spot. And suddenly… nothing. It felt like nothing. It was like my period had disappeared.
That was the moment my relationship with my body completely changed.
The Lost Tampon String Chronicles
From then on, one week every month became a crash course in self-exploration. I was literally putting my fingers inside myself, feeling the shape of my inner walls, learning the angles, noticing the way my tissue felt—sometimes soft and warm, sometimes slick and slippery. My body was no longer abstract; it was something I knew by feel.
I had to find an insertion technique that worked for me. Squatting on the floor? Meh. Sitting on the toilet? Nope. One foot on the sink? Absolute gold. I was basically choreographing a dance routine with my vagina. I even gave names to my “positions.” (Sink Leg Stretch was a classic.)
Even removal was a full-blown experience. When the flow was heavy, it was like popping a cork—satisfying and a little messy. When it was light, it was like dragging Velcro across your insides—dry, scratchy, and NOT comfy. And then there was the tampon slingshot— that tragic moment when you pull the string too hard, and the tampon rockets out like it’s been ejected from a fighter jet, splattering blood everywhere. (Tampon users, you know what I’m talking about.)
But here’s the magic part: in all that poking, tugging, adjusting, wiping—I started noticing patterns.
Lost string? No panic. I’d take a deep breath, squat like a pro, and fish it out with two fingers like a claw machine champion. Spotting mid-cycle? I’d pull up my period tracker and, bam—ovulation spotting. Mystery solved. Weird pinch on my labia? Time to grab the mirror, poke around, and—voila—ingrown hair identified. No spirals. No doom. Just information.
I wasn’t just reacting anymore, I was understanding.
Cracking the Mystery of My Own Body
In my early 20s, when my exploration of my body intersected with my sexual exploration, I was already several levels deep into body literacy. So when something felt off, I wasn’t scared—I got curious.
Missed a period? Random bleeding after sex? Weirdly watery discharge? I didn’t spiral—I investigated. I had baseline data on my own body, and that made Googling so much more productive. The clearer your prompt, the better the answer. And I had great prompts.
I knew what my discharge normally looked like—milky around ovulation, thicker closer to my period. I noticed the tiny twinge on one side of my abdomen mid-cycle. (Hi, ovulation pain!) I knew when a cramp was a red flag or just my uterus stretching her legs.
Gynaecologist appointments stopped being scary. They became check-ins. I’d walk in like, “Hey, here’s what I’m feeling, here’s what it looks like, what’s the vibe?” Pap smears, STI tests, pelvic exams—none of it felt invasive anymore, because I’d already been in there. It was my body, after all. I wasn’t a stranger to it.
From Period Pain to Power Moves
Tampons helped me rewrite the entire story I’d been told about my body. It wasn’t fragile or shameful. Notsome weird, leaky creature I had to manage. It was intelligent. Powerful. Predictable, even. And I could read it like a book.
I could talk about cramps without whispering, laugh about PMS. I knew when to rest, when to push, and when to just eat chocolate and cry to an episode of One Tree Hill.
In relationships, I could advocate for my pleasure and my boundaries, because I wasn’t afraid to talk about my body. At the gym, I could adjust my workouts based on my cycle (here’s a guide, if you’re not there yet). Even simple things, like choosing the right underwear, became more intentional because I understood my body’s needs.
You might think, “Okay, but can’t you get here with pads, too?” Totally. Whatever makes you feel empowered in your body is the right path. But tampons? They did it for me. Maybe it was the fact that they required me to literally reach inside myself. That kind of intimacy leaves an imprint.
Teaching the Sisterhood About Tampons
Now, I’m the friend everyone texts when they want to give tampons another try. Not because I’m some certified period coach, but because I figured it out, and I love sharing hacks.
I’ve redrawn my mother’s diagram more times than I can count. I’ve coached friends through insertion via voice note, FaceTime, even doodles on napkins. And slowly, one by one, they’ve joined Team Tampon.
Ready to Feel Like a Boss in Your Own Body?
If you’ve ever felt awkward, uncomfortable, or just plain afraid to try tampons—trust me, I get it. But when you learn how to use them right (here’s a complete guide on how to do that), it’s like unlocking a whole new level of bodily confidence.
No more leaks. Zero skipped pool parties. No more feeling like your body is something you need to tiptoe around.
I swear by these tampons now. They’re comfortable, easy to use, and honestly? Life-changing.
So, if you’re ready to feel comfortable—really comfortable—in your body, maybe it’s time to give them a shot.
Have your own story with tampons? Drop it in the comments. Let’s get comfy—and talk about it.
